


Like Devils Can

by seasonschange



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst, Bad Parenting, Bodyguard Bucky, Bucky is 30, Bucky is questionable, Domestic Violence, Everyone is a criminal, Irish Steve, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Racism, Steve is 23, Steve isn't evil, lowkey Science Boyfriends, mafia, pre-amputation bucky, preserumsoldier, russian bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4571622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasonschange/pseuds/seasonschange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is the adopted son of the most powerful Irish gang leader in NYC.</p><p>Yasha "Bucky" Barnov is what the Russians call a <i>byk</i> — a <i>bull</i>, the lowest rank in the mafia. Hence the nickname.</p><p>Maybe it'd have been for the best if their paths had never crossed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got the idea a month ago; decided to write this to celebrate my favorite manga (about yakuzas lmao) _finally_ updating. Thanks to [spacebucky](http://spacebucky.tumblr.com%22) for showing me this stunning [fanart](http://www.pilot-star.net/post/117666310695/i-finished-my-comic-and-i-said-to-myself-now-i) which was the spark that started the whole idea thing.  
>  PS: _byk(i)_ is totally a real word used by the Russian mob to designate their bodyguards, I'm so happy? (cf. [wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_mafia))

* * *

 

There was nothing more dreadful than being a member of one of the toughest, meanest, most feared families in the entire city, while simultaneously looking like a breeze could knock you over.

As a scrawny, sickly child, freshly adopted from the orphanage by a powerful mafioso in NYC whose wife was unfortunately barren, Steve had been coddled almost to death by the women of the family. Then later, as a teenager he'd been teased mercilessly for his pretty face and his still too slim figure, compared to all the other boys his age who puberty had turned into brick shithouses. The name-calling and the distasteful pranks were, of course, always perpetrated behind the back of both Steve's adoptive father and his right hand, Nick Fury, who'd always been Steve's designated 'sitter' as the others called him whenever the scary gangster couldn't hear them.

Fury's job had been to prevent Steve from picking up fights with anyone who had a problem with his mere existence in this world — which was to say, a  _whole lot_ of people, in and outside of the family. _  
_

Steve had had his jaw broken by a cousin over a hot-dog; had gotten a black eye and two broken ribs from a quarrel with a group of the oldest members of the family after they'd catcalled a woman and terrorized the poor thing in front of Steve's affronted eyes; and that list of injuries he'd more or less brought upon himself went on and on... and _on_.

Fury would always arrive too late, mostly when Steve was already out of the hospital and swearing up and down that he'd done all of those injuries to himself, clumsy poor bastard that he was. Fury ate his bullshit all up because he had a  _real_ job to do besides looking after Steve's bony ass, and the excuses never seemed to surprise his father nor his mother, both used to their son's inability to fit in. _  
_

Alexander Pierce had often threatened Steve of sending him to a boarding school where they still used sticks to 'educate' the bad seed if he didn't learn to behave, and stop trying to prove himself —  _"it's useless, sonny-boy. You'll never be fit for this work, anyway"_. He'd never follow those threats through, though, and whatever was the reason, Steve was grateful for it. When he was younger he would often feel resentful towards his father for choosing him in the first place, all those years ago, when he could have picked anyone else from the orphanage to be his sole heir. Someone healthy and with a presence imposing enough to earn everyone's respect.

Steve had only had the nerves to confront his father about this once, when he was still a wild teenager looking for answers and couldn't keep his mouth shut. He'd always been afraid of asking, for fear of making Pierce realize how wrong he'd been to choose him in the first place, or appearing like an ungrateful son. Which he never was; Steve would be forever grateful to have been saved from a life of misery and loneliness. What he'd gained instead was still a tough existence, and after his fragile teenage heart hadn't been able to keep this in any longer, he'd gone to his father and outright asked: "Why, dad? From _everyone_ else you could have adopted, why me?" _  
_

Pierce had chuckled at the skinny boy with fire in his light blue eyes, and pointed at him with one wrinkled finger.

"That's why, sonny. You've got a passion in you that can't be taught, and I like that. You were surely the weakest of the litter, but also the smartest. If you think I want another brainless _ape_  at the head of this family once I retire, you're dead wrong."

That answer had given Steve some serious food for thought. It made sense, and looking at his father, Steve would never have mistaken him for one of the goons working for him. Alexander Pierce did possess a certain amount of refinement the rest of the family seriously _lacked,_ and that realization had taken off a real weight from Steve's chest. It'd also made him more confident in his position, and its perks.

But now at 23, Steve'd had more than enough of bearing the rest of the family's contempt for him. He'd grown tired of being treated with disdain by his uncles and cousins, by his father's associates, and basically everyone who ever came to conduct business with them. The slurs hadn't stopped either, they'd only become more interspersed by long periods of time where everyone would basically ignore Steve's existence whatsoever. How could Steve ever dream of replacing his father at the head of the gang and managing the family business if nobody respected him? If nobody even  _listened_ to what he had to say?

He knew most of the resentment originated from that one sore spot — the fact that everyone was pulling their weight to keep the business and the family afloat,  but still never received the amount of affection or leeway Steve got for doing nothing but existing, and costing them a great amount of money in hospital bills and daily medication.

From a very young age, Steve had been nothing but ostracized, and put on a pedestal only to be better picked at.

He was always caught in the middle between those who wanted him to go out there and give a hand with whatever task his father needed to be done in the neighborhood, his poor health be damned; and those (mostly Fury and his father) who needed him to get out of their way and not make their lives and their jobs any more difficult by  _pretending_ to be good enough to contribute, when the chances that he'd mess everything up were too high.

And still, this was  _nothing_ compared to what the rival gangs' fuckheads did to Steve whenever he'd accidentally land on their territory for one reason or another. The Italians, mostly, _loved_ getting out their frustrations on him, the weakest link of a powerful colossus they couldn't and wouldn't dare face up to otherwise. They'd always beat him up with what they called _'attention to detail'_  — which basically just meant they'd be extra careful not to cause any life-threatening injuries, because the death of a member from a concurrent gang could only lead to a war between the two families. And the eventuality of losing to the Irish, and getting absorbed by the bigger mob along with all their possessions was one of the Italians' baddest nightmares.

In the last few years, Steve's father had been more than preoccupied by the growing influence of the Russians to care about his adopted son getting beaten to a pulp. Sure, he'd get very upset everytime Steve would come home covered in his own blood and barely standing, but then he'd decide that Steve had probably brought this on himself,  _somehow_ , and that it'd teach him a good lesson about constantly picking up fights. As for Steve's mother, she'd already be too drunk to give a flying fuck, except to demand her kiss on the cheek like a petulant child.

At least Steve was home-schooled, which meant he didn't actually  _have_ to  _ever_ go outside, if he wanted to. In kindergarten, and then primary school, kids used to be mean to Steve because their parents told them to; they'd tell Steve scary tales about his family and what their business really entailed, but Steve could never believe their badmouthing. His own father, a _murderer?_ No, that just wasn't anywhere near the realm of possible.

What they said about Nick, and Maria, and even about funny, kindhearted Rhodey; it was all bullshit. The kids had called them gangsters, and criminals, and to a certain level Steve knew that to be true, but he'd also been brought up believing society had it out for them on  _principle_ only, and that the only way they could  _exist_ was by breaking the law that was so unfair to those it didn't give priority to. Steve knew they were outlaws, but they only stole from those who'd first stolen from them. They took from those who were so rich they could feed the whole population of the city, and used it to feed their family and take care of each other. None of the kids had ever understood that, and it had gotten to the point where Steve had been forced by both students and teachers to leave his school and have his father hire someone to come home instead.

The man his father had eventually found him, Mr Banner, was a university teacher who came by five days a week, always after three in the afternoon, and set all his books and manuals down on the table in the relative privacy of the large living room, where people were always coming and going, and could occasionally keep an eye on the newcomer.

At first the teacher had seemed nervous around Steve's family, especially his 'uncles' — that's how Steve had been taught to call basically everyone who hung around the house and worked for his father, even though they couldn't all be actual relatives to the Pierces. Tony had been especially annoying the first few times, parading around with his holster and the Glock 33 sheathed inside on full display. He'd asked Mr Banner an awful lot of questions, too, some of which had made Steve's cheeks turn red with embarrassment, and he'd basically behaved like the overly nosy and pushy asshole he was to everyone he didn't know or trusted.

Once Mr Banner had been declared safe enough to be left alone with Steve for long periods of time, Tony had thankfully backed off.

Although he could still re-enter the fray from time to time to check on them, and sometimes flanked by Clint.

Clint Barton was another one of Steve's uncles who liked to inspire fear in men's hearts with what they all called his 'resting bitchface of doom'; he was also kind of scary if he came at you while casually fooling around with his knives, or that toy-bow Steve had bought him for his birthday _centuries_ ago, and that the man _still_ used, but with actual motherfucking dead-sharparrows which he liked to shoot at inanimate stuff. Or rats.

It had taken months for Steve's teacher to get accustomed to his family's antics, and eventually not even raise a single eyebrow at their shows of intimidation, focusing instead on his student and the intricacies of algebra. Steve sure hoped his father paid him enough for bearing Tony Stark on an almost daily basis.

"Why do I have to learn how bookkeeping works?" Steve had asked one day when he was feeling especially bored by what Mr Banner was saying for the last hour and a half. "I don't wanna be an accountant."

"That's what your father wants you to be," his teacher had said in reply, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. "And you know that what Mr Pierce wants — he gets."

"But it's boring. And isn't it _Nick'_ s job? Why am I supposed to know about this, too?" _  
_

"I guess... because your father doesn't trust his associates. And you need to be able to tell if... they're stealing from you."

Mr Banner had looked a bit uncomfortable talking about his father's business then, so Steve had taken pity on the man and decided to focus on the lesson again. It still bothered him, though. There was  _no way_ he would become a simple pencil pusher. He wanted to do  _more._ To become  _really_ useful to the family, and everyone he cared about. He wanted to keep them all safe, and lend a hand, and be the guy everyone could rely on.

Steve knew that if he wanted things to change, and his father to finally trust him enough to let him in on the business, he had to do something. Something spectacular enough to prove everyone there was more to Steve than _'the boss' incompetent son'_.

But maybe Steve should have known better than to pick a fight with _the Hydra_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly dunno where this thing is going _exactly_ , I only have a vague idea which includes the characters already mentioned in the tags, and a couple of interesting events, but any more than that...  
> Anyway, we'll see where it's leading ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. collision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything goes according to Steve's plan. Until he meets Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Good news:** I might've started planning chapters ahead *pat pat @self*  
>  **Bad news:** I'll keep adding new tags and warnings as the story goes (to avoid spoilers), but I can already tell you it's _definitely_ going to get ugly in future chapters.
> 
> I changed this chapter so much! Hope I won't find any incoherence later...

* * *

The plan was simple enough.

A month ago, Steve's father had lost a bet during a horse race hosted by a company entirely owned by the Russians. Pierce had been forced to give away his favorite Maserati to the head of the Russian family; a car he'd prided himself for winning from the Italians in similar circumstances.

Gambling had always sounded like an absurd hobby to Steve. There was too much uncertainty, and it relied far too much on one's luck. Steve already knew his luck tended to be pretty bad, so it was clearly not something he'd ever develop any interest for. But he would never dare trying to talk his father out of gambling, though. To people like him, it was something they had to do to prove they had guts. Or whatever.

And now was Steve's turn to prove he had what it took to be trusted with his father's business; whatever the latter might entail.

All he had to do was stay calm and focused, and most of all —  _extremely quiet.  
_

So here he was at two in the morning, crouching behind a car parked by the back entrance of an imposing mansion. The place was known for housing one of the most influential outlaws in these parts of town, along with all his Russian henchmen. Most of them were ex-cons, and Steve had seen enough of them flanking their boss at official events to know how disturbing it could be to meet their expressionless eyes. The mere memory gave him chills. _  
_

Yet there he was, keeping watch in the shadows right outside a place that filled his worst nightmares. People affiliated to Alexander Pierce knew they were far from welcome this side of the city, but Steve didn't see any other possible way. If he wanted to prove himself, he needed to do something truly  _ballsy_ — and what was more daring than taking back his father's car right under the Russians' noses.

Another twenty minutes spent surveying the back entrance, and Steve decided the coast was clear enough for him to proceed. Dressed in his over-sized navy blue hoodie and black cargo pants, his light blond hair concealed under a black beanie, he hoped he would be able to get in and out like a shadow, with no chances of being recognized even if spotted from afar.

Careful not to drop the Sig Sauer P226 he'd gotten for his twenty-first birthday, Steve pulled out the gloves from the large pocket of his hoodie and put them on with shaky hands. He'd never used the gun before although he'd had it for a couple of years, never having been a fan of firearms like the rest of the family. His father had still forced him to learn all there was to know about guns anyway, which was the reason why Steve knew exactly what he was holding in his unstable hand at the moment. He wasn't planning on firing it tonight, either, making sure the cartridge clip was empty before he'd grabbed the gun on his way out. Steve only intended to use it as a last resort, and only to try and dissuade people to start shooting at him.

 Gun in hand, Steve slid out of his hiding place and slowly made his way to the metal fence across the street. After throwing a quick look around to make sure there were no witnesses, Steve went down on one knee and took out a hairpin and a paper clip out of the back pocket of his pants.

It took him maybe ten minutes, and a lot of cursing under his breath before the heavy lock surrendered with a soft click. Pocketing back his tools, heart beating fast in his throat, Steve opened the lock and pushed the fence open.

* * *

_"Get off, you idiot."_

Wanda Maximoff flicked her brother's ear viciously, enjoying the young man's startled yelp.

Pietro tried to retaliate, but his sister was too quick and already out of his reach, glaring at him with her arms crossed over her chest.

_"If Natasha catches you fooling around with the boss' cars, she'll kill you."_

Her brother made a rude gesture in reply and proceeded to lean back against the windshield, stretching his long legs over the hood of the black Maserati with, smug grin stretching from ear to ear.

_"Nah, Tash likes me too much."_

Wanda rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

_"In fact, I think she has a crush on me."_

_"Oh, you wish!"_  Wanda snorted at Pietro's nonsense, hoping her brother wasn't foolish enough to believe the bullshit he was spouting.

Everyone knew Natasha was as much Rumlow's bodyguard as she was his  _propriety_. And nobody touched Rumlow's propriety. Not even members of the family like the Maximoff twins, who'd been raised by whomever was around the house since their father, Rumlow's brother-in-law, had been killed during a very ugly conflict inside their tight ring of blood-related families itself. Rumlow was at the head of the business, but it hadn't always been the case, and there'd been a  _lot_  of suspicious deaths on his way to the top. 

Wanda wasn't sure how much about that story was true and how much was just good old Johann messing with her. At barely fifteen, she and Pietro were still too gullible, and everyone found it more amusing to tell them all those incredible tales about their uncle Brock, than to give them the truth. At least Wanda had maturity on her side, and knew when she was being taken for a fool. Sadly, she couldn't say the same about her reckless brother.

 _"Come on, get off,"_ She reiterated, but a strange noise caught her attention at the same moment, and she silenced Pietro's imminent comeback with a single agitated gesture of her hand. "Shh, did you hear that?" She asked, not even noticing she'd switched to English.

Pietro shrugged, lighting up a cigarette with a match before throwing the latter.

_"Heard what?"_

The sound had come from the backyard. And it might be part of their chores to lock the garage at night while everyone was getting ready for bed and use that opportunity to enjoy a smoke or two while they were down there, but suddenly the dimly lit space felt like everything  _but_  a relaxing place. It was actually creepy.

"Maybe we should—"

_"Brock is asking after you."_

The low voice rang like a bark, making both twins practically jump out of their skin. Bucky was standing by the door leading upstairs, his dark figure in stark contrast with the yellow light bathing the staircase behind him.

He sounded annoyed as all hell, and that wasn't a good sign.

Scurrying to obey, Pietro slid down the car and hastily made his way over to Bucky, Wanda following suit. She snickered when Bucky snatched Pietro's cigarette out of his mouth as he passed him by, before stubbing it out on the ground with the heavy heel of his shoe.

_"I thought we had a deal about this shit."_

Wanda smirked.

_"I swear, it's the only one I've smoked today!"_

Bucky frowned, looming over Pietro who was looking everywhere but in the man's eyes. Eventually, the tall bodyguard cursed under his breath and pushed the Maximoff kid out of his way and in the direction of the stairs, visibly irritated with him but having no time to deal with the disobedient young man.

 _"Don't fall asleep,"_ Wanda called over to Bucky as she was climbing up the stairs after her brother, making Bucky roll his eyes in reply.

 _"Brats,"_ he muttered to himself, closing the door and plunging the garage into total darkness.

It was time for Bucky's night shift. Sprinkled with a couple of uncomfortable naps now and again.

* * *

Steve winced when the fence opened with a loud, rusty groan.

He froze in his tracks, wondering if he wasn't about to be attacked by a pack of watchdogs. Or worse, by the people living inside the mansion. It only now sank in how unprepared he was in the eventuality of anyone finding him out.

But it was already too late to back out.

Luckily, there was no furious barking or anyone jumping at him, so Steve swallowed the trepidation twisting his insides and decided the fence was open wide enough for him to slip through. It was only a crack, and it took a little time, but he managed the feat with only a minimum of tears in his hoodie where the fabric caught on the rust covering the metal bars. Times like these, Steve was thankful for his skinny complexion. He'd make a prime cat burglar, he'd been told on many occasions.

Inside the backyard, the lack of streetlamps created a much darker atmosphere.

The only source of light was a lantern casting a white glow over the wide door of what Steve supposed had to be the garage, located right behind the mansion. Steve sighed in relief, pocketing his gun and reaching the door in a sprint. Without losing any more time, he worked through the two locks securing the door from either side and prevented it from sliding open.

"Alright," Steve murmured in satisfaction before gripping the handle and rolling the heavy door open.

Again, it was rather loud, but at that point Steve knew he could only pray he'd be gone before the Russians had a chance to realize what the hell was happening.

He let go of the panel next and waited for it to roll all the way up, revealing an impressive collection of cars. Only a few of them looked luxurious enough to belong to the head of their gang leader. The rest were bulletproof SUVs that had to belong to the other members of the family. There were also maybe a couple of smaller, less conspicuous vehicles.

It didn't take long for Steve to identify his father's Maserati, the Russians having apparently not bothered changing the licence plate.

With a minimum of fuss, Steve went to the driver's side and wrapped the excessive length of his sleeve around his fist, ready to smash the window into pieces.

But before he could draw back his fist, out of nowhere a hand closed around his throat and forced his head down against the roof of the car. It was so sudden and brutal, Steve couldn't even _think_ of screaming. Immobilized in no time, Steve's breath was knocked out of his lungs, all thoughts scattering for a moment. Then a large body came pressing so close against his back, it was like the person behind him was trying to  _crush_ him underneath them.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!_

Steve was a _dead_ man.

"Got a death wish, kid?"

The low voice by his ear was distinctively male, and made the fine hairs at Steve's nape stand on end. Surprisingly, there was no accent clouding the words.

Steve tried to shake the other man off, but all he managed was to wiggle like a helpless worm before the man grabbed his right hand and squeezed the wrist so tight it made him cry out in pain. And petrified him in the process.

Steve's heart was beating frenetically inside his ribcage as if trying to beat _out_ of his chest; but just as surely as Steve was trapped inside the man's grip, the fragile muscle had no chances of finding a way out anytime soon.

"I'm not a _kid_ ," Steve mouthed with venom against the cold surface, trying to elbow the man behind him in the process, but to no avail.

And then of all the awful things that could have possibly happened next, Steve felt the first signs of arousal low in his belly.

Immediately he flailed in reaction, fighting back the warmth flooding his insides when the man shifted to get a better hold of his restless limbs, and increased the pressure of his body against Steve's ass. For someone who'd never been held in such an intimate manner by someone from the same gender, and who had been forced to hide his preferences ever since he could remember, it was far too much.

"Fuck," Steve breathed out, his crazed hormones making him arch his ass back against the taller man, and there was no way for him to tell if it was to seek more friction or an attempt to throw the man off of him. It could very well have been both.

The darkness, the adrenaline from being caught in the act and the sensation of the definitely male body plastered against his all combined to make Steve lose his mind — and his cock stand at attention.

He was  _this_  close to start rubbing off against his father's car.

_Oh God._

The man behind him cursed in Russian and moved a fraction of an inch back. Enough to give Steve some air, and pull their lower bodies apart.

Steve immediately felt all the blood rise to his cheeks in embarrassment.  _Fuck_ , why was he behaving like a bitch in heat?! The man was clearly disgusted by Steve's reaction, or at the very least surprised. He had to think Steve was some sort of nymphomaniac, and a very _deranged_ one. Not that Steve should care, but it still hurt his pride. _Badly_.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" The man growled next, fingers tightening around Steve's bony wrist as he slammed it violently against the car. "I've got no patience for punks like you, so you better start talking before I start cutting pieces off of you. Not that there is much to cut off," he pointed out, almost as if talking to himself. "Damn, you're just a sack of bones. Maybe if I break a couple of them, it'll be enough to make you talk? Hm?"

"F-f-fuck off!"

* * *

 

The light went suddenly on inside the garage, and Bucky threw the bony kid on the ground beside the car, effectively hiding him from whomever had just walked in on them.

Taking the night shift meant his job was to report every single trespasser on the property, and bring him in to be further questioned by his superiors. However, Bucky doubted they'd show any mercy to this one, even though the little burglar was clearly too young and too stupid to be fully responsible for his actions. It didn't sit right with Bucky to deliver this tiny thing in the hands of the Hydra. The "questioning" was most likely to  _kill_ the kid.

He pictured young, cocky Pietro in place of the kid and knew he couldn't do it. Looking after those children had softened Bucky in ways he hadn't expected, but didn't regret. Five years ago, Bucky would have put a bullet in the back of the kid's head without an afterthought. Bucky sure as hell didn't miss that person.

All in all, it was better to deal with this problem himself, and report it later once he was sure the kid would be far,  _far_ away from the residence.

_"What the fuck are you doing down there? Why's the door open?"_

Natasha Romanoff walked inside the garage in nothing but a white tank top and a pair of pajama pants, red curls flowing freely down her back and a gun in her right hand.

_"It's nothing, go back to sleep."_

The redhead eyed him suspiciously, before scrutinizing the room. Bucky didn't dare look down to check on the kid even once, and he hoped the idiot wasn't _completely_ suicidal and knew not to fucking move until Bucky had dealt with Rumlow's restless bodyguard.

Her inspection over, Natasha came towards him and Bucky jumped to meet her halfway, abandoning the shiny black car and the kid hidden behind, a feeling of imminent doom twisting his insides.

 _"You woke the boss up_ ," Natasha told him, her body relaxing and her hand going lax around her gun, obviously trusting Bucky.

Bucky sighed, fully aware of the way Rumlow treated Natasha and how he'd sometimes take his bad temper out on her. Afterwards when Natasha would appear in front of everyone with new cuts and bruises marking her , they would all joke about how she was tough enough to take it, anyway. She was Natasha fucking Romanoff.

Bucky had never taken any part in those jokes, and only _he_ knew how  _not_ tough Natasha felt every time Rumlow beat her up, or treated her like his personal slave. But it was the way the Hydra worked; they owed everything to the boss: their jobs, their money, their home, their security. They had sworn their loyalty to him, and couldn't go back on their word. It was pride, and the sense of family that held them all back. You'd never hear Natasha complain, and you'd never see anyone come to her defense. Least of all Bucky, whose only business was the well-being of the Maximoff twins.

Natasha yawned, scratching her scalp absently with the hand still holding the gun.

_"Alright, I'm going back to bed. Don't forget to close that door."_

Bucky almost sighed in relief. He managed to keep his pokerface in place instead, and watched Natasha turn on her heels and leave the garage, not bothering the turn the lights back off.

The sound of her steps up the stairs was suddenly drowned by one of the engines behind Bucky's back roaring back to life. Bucky spun around and watched in shock as the kid from earlier had managed to get inside the driver's seat, and efficiently directing the car towards the wide open exit.

" _Sukin syn!_  " — Son of a bitch!

Without hesitation, Bucky jumped after the vehicle and managed to grab one handle and throw himself on the backseat before the car had the time to pick up speed. He held on for dear life as the kid drove the car through the metallic fence, praying the kid was at least old enough to know how a car even worked.

Bucky heard Natasha's angry shout, and then a couple of gunshots, and then they were on the street, and the kid was speeding up, engine revving in the otherwise silent night.

It seemed like he hadn't noticed Bucky's presence yet, the older man lying on the backseat with a hand gripping the driver's seat to stabilize himself. In the flickering light of the streetlamps, Bucky could make out a portion of the kid's face, and... yeah, he wasn't as much of a kid as Bucky had first thought. Still, he seemed too young to be taken care of the way Bucky preferred. His gun would have to wait in its sheath hanging from the back of his belt. There was no way Bucky would be shooting a kid, or anyone who looked barely of age.

"Stop the damn car."

Bucky hissed the words instead of yelling them, trying not to scare the driver as he slowly stood up.

The kid looked up in the rear-view mirror, shrieked like a pack of demons had suddenly appeared — instead of Bucky's grumpy, disheveled head — and drove them right out of the road and into the facade of a house.

 _"Blyad!_ _" —_ Fuck!

Bucky quickly threw his big arms from behind the driver's seat and circled the kid's puny body, grabbing his own elbows and holding on with all his might, effectively pinning the boy into his seat.

_Stupid kid didn't put his fucking seatbelt on._

That was Bucky's last thought before the impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Good old" Johann Fennhoff is that psychiatrist from Agent Carter. Say no more for those who haven't watched it yet. Anyway, this is his [face](http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/marvelcinematicuniverse/images/8/8f/PPG5kaz.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20150219041048).


End file.
